Carl Hiaasen - Flush

When I showed the envelope to the deputy at the desk, he didn't seem very impressed. He peeked inside to make sure that it was only a letter, and he said he'd give it to my father later.

“Can't I give it to him myself?” I asked.

“No, he's busy this morning,” the deputy said.

Busy? I thought. Doing what-pretending to play chess?

“Is he all right?” I said.

The deputy chuckled. “Yeah, he's fine. There's a TV crew that drove down from Miami to see him.”

“TV?”

“Yeah, Channel 10. They said they'll need at least an hour.”

“Then I'll come back later,” I said.

The deputy shook his head. “Sorry, sport. Inmates are allowed only one short visit per day, and we're already bending the rules for this TV thing. Maybe tomorrow you can see your old man. But call first, okay?”

Sure enough, there was a shiny new van from Channel 10 parked outside the sheriff's station. I don't know why I hadn't noticed it before. I rode away wondering how to tell my mother that Dad was now doing television interviews from jail. She'd find out sooner or later, when it was on the news, because all the Miami TV stations broadcast to the Keys.

So I'd have to tell her, even though she wouldn't be happy about it. Maybe Dad thought of himself as a political prisoner, but Mom thought he was being a selfish jerk.

Lice Peeking was actually awake and semi-alert when I stopped at the trailer. Shelly wasn't there, which was sort of a relief and a disappointment at the same time. She made me real nervous-but she also kept Lice Peeking from acting up.

“Well, lookie who's here,” he said with a wormy smile.

He was lounging on the front stoop, sucking on a cigarette. His hair was wet and tangly, and his shirt was damp. I couldn't tell whether he'd taken a shower or sprayed himself down with a garden hose.

“So, how's the jailbird?” he asked.

“Oh, that's real funny.” I didn't appreciate him talking that way about Dad. It was different when Abbey did it because she was family. Lice Peeking was just a lazy lump who didn't know anything about my father.

“Well, what'd he say?” Lice Peeking asked. “Can he come up with some money or not?”

I said, “We don't have any money, but he'll give you his flats skiff. It's worth twelve thousand dollars.”

Lice Peeking squinted one bloodshot eye. “Says who?”

“Come see for yourself. It's on a trailer behind our house.” I told him what kind of boat it was, and that the engine had fewer than a hundred hours on it.

“Seriously?” he said.

“My father doesn't lie.”

“And it's free and clear, this boat? The bank don't own a piece?”

“Dad paid off the loan last year,” I said.

Lice Peeking scratched his chin, which was raw and peeling. “Where's your house at?” he asked.

I gave him directions. It nearly broke my heart to think of a loser like that taking our skiff and selling it for cash. But what else could we do?

Lice Peeking flicked his cigarette butt under the trailer and pulled himself upright. “Let's go have a look,” he said, which caught me by surprise.

“It's a long way to walk,” I said.

“Who's walkin', boy?” He laughed and pointed at my bicycle. “Hop up on the handlebars.”

And that's what I did.

It had been a while since Lice Peeking had pedaled a bike, and he was wheezing by the time we got to the house. He seemed shocked that there was no beer in the refrigerator, but he settled for a Diet Coke. We went out back to see Dad's skiff, and Lice Peeking made up his mind right away. It was a cool-looking boat.

“We definitely got us a deal,” he said. “I'll be back with Shelly and the Jeep to pick it up-say tomorrow 'round noon?”

“Hold on,” I said. “It's not free.”

Lice Peeking sniffed. “Chill out, junior, I know that.”

“My dad wants you to sign a statement telling what you saw when you worked on the Coral Queen. You know, about Mr. Muleman making them empty the dirty holding tank into the water.”

“Sure, no sweat,” Lice Peeking said.

“And anything else illegal you know about. Like, if they're dumping garbage or oil, too. You need to write it all down.”

“You bet.” He was walking back and forth, admiring the skiff from different angles. “Now, the trailer's included, right?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Could you please bring the statement when you come get the boat?”

Lice Peeking made a face and looked down at me. “You want it tomorrow? Seriously?”

“Yes, sir. And Dad says it's got to be signed and witnessed,” I told him. “That's the deal.”

“Geez, you're quite the young hardass, ain't ya?”

“No, sir,” I said. “My father's in jail and I want to help him out. That's all.”

On the way back to the trailer court we passed Jasper Muleman Jr. and Bull pushing a wheelbarrow down the bike path. It was obviously a strain, and as we rode past I saw why. Balanced upside down in the wheelbarrow was the mud-splattered outboard motor from the johnboat that had sunk in Snake Creek. The engine's propeller was dented and caked with greenish crud.

Jasper Jr. called out something nasty as we rode by, but I was surprised when Lice Peeking braked the bicycle and spun around. I told him to forget about it, just keep going, but he was mad. He pedaled straight up to Jasper Jr. and Bull, blocking their path.

“What was that you just said, boy?” Lice Peeking demanded.

“I wasn't talkin' to you,” Jasper Jr. mumbled.

“He was talking to me. Honest,” I said to Lice Peeking. I didn't want any trouble right there on the main highway, where everybody could see us.

But Lice Peeking didn't let up.

“Sounds like you got your daddy's potty mouth,” he said to Jasper Jr. “Keep it up, you'll need a whole new setta choppers before you're eighteen.”

Bull said, “Come on, Lice, he didn't mean nothin'. That's the truth.”

“Shut up, Bull,” said Lice Peeking. “You wouldn't know the truth if it stung you on the butt. Now, Jasper, how 'bout you apologize to me and my friend?”

I could have gone my whole entire life without Lice Peeking calling me his “friend.” On the inside I was cringing.

Jasper Jr. shot me a vicious glare. Then he turned sulky and looked down at his feet.

“I'm waitin', boy,” said Lice Peeking.

“I'll 'polgize to you,” Jasper Jr. said finally, “but not to him.”

He jerked his grimy chin toward me.

Bull blurted, “Underwood's old man sunk Jasper's pappy's boat!”

“Like I care,” Lice Peeking said.

He placed one boot on the rim of the wheelbarrow and gave a push. It turned over sideways, toppling the outboard motor with a crunch onto the hard asphalt. A gush of oily gray fluid spilled from the cracked cowling.

Bull groaned. Jasper Jr.'s jaw fell open.

“Don't call people names,” Lice Peeking said. “It ain't polite.”

Then we rode away.

That night, after dinner, Mom put on a CD by a singer named Sheryl Crow. One of the songs was called “My Favorite Mistake,” and my mother liked to joke that she could have written it herself-about my dad.

This time, though, she didn't smile when the song came on.

I was going to tell her about Dad doing that interview with Channel 10, but I decided to wait until she was in a better mood. I didn't tell my sister, either, because she'd get ticked off and start throwing stuff around her room. Abbey has a hot temper.

Around ten-fifteen Mom turned off the stereo, gave me a hug, and went off to bed. I was pretty tired, but I stayed up reading a skateboard magazine and kept one eye on the clock. At exactly midnight I crept down the hall and tapped on Abbey's door. She was wide awake and ready to go. We snuck out through the kitchen and got our bicycles from the garage.